Two Dogs and a Bone
by merduff
Summary: House needs to learn how to play nicely with the other children.


Thanks to **elynittria** for her fast and effective editing! Written for **jdr1184** for her generous donation to the **rslbdaydrive** — thank you to everybody who donated! Apologies to John Patrick Shanley

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Teresa Pendleton was a creature of habit. Every morning, shortly after 10:30, she took a coffee break — not in the staff lounge a few yards from her desk, but in the cafeteria, where she could escape the sound of her phone for a few precious minutes. She was careful never to leave patient files unattended, but it never occurred to her to lock away her planner, or the daily schedule of her boss.

Greg House was a creature of habit as well, though not all of them could be discussed in polite company. Every morning, shortly after 10:35, he wandered over to the Oncology lounge to check if anything interesting had recorded on the TiVo. If his path just happened to take him past Teresa's desk, and if he just happened to stop and sit in her chair for a brief moment, it was only because he wanted to rest his leg. It certainly had nothing to do with the schedule he quickly read and memorized.

James Wilson was the poster boy for routine. House could track his moods by his apparel, detect the early symptoms of love sickness by when and where he ate, and the end of an affair by how many hours he worked overtime. A break in the routine was an important diagnostic tool, which is why House walked away in the middle of an argument with the evil overlord of PPTH when he saw Wilson disappear through the lobby doors.

"Where are you going?" Cuddy demanded, darting around to block his path. "I haven't finished yelling at you."

"Record it for later," House said. "It'll make a great scratch track with the right beat. Gotta run."

"Good luck with that," Cuddy muttered, but she stood aside.

House glanced at his watch as he stalked after Wilson. Wilson was supposed to be on grand rounds for at least the next 45 minutes. House hated change, especially when it involved Wilson.

By the time he made it through the lobby and out the door, Wilson was nearly out of sight, heading not to his car, but towards the main campus. House debated trying to follow, but Wilson was in full stride and pulling away. It would be hard to track him in the crowd of students heading to class.

"What's the matter?" Cuddy asked, appearing suddenly behind him. "Did Wilson go off your radar?" She sounded just a little too amused, which made House immediately suspicious.

"You don't have a problem with one of your department heads shirking his duties? This is a teaching hospital. Rounds are an important part of the learning process." Sometimes even House didn't believe the words that came out of his mouth.

"When was the last time you participated in grand rounds?"

"Bum leg," House explained. "I've got a note from my doctor and everything." When Cuddy didn't press the argument, House became even more suspicious. "You know something I don't."

"Congratulations, House. Admitting that is a big step for you." She crossed her arms and looked at him smugly. "Unlike some people, Wilson tells me when his schedule changes, which is why I had no problem releasing him from rounds to meet a friend."

"Wilson doesn't have friends — he has me."

"That's possibly the most depressing thing I've ever heard," Cuddy mused. "Fortunately, it's not entirely true. Brendan Frary from Molecular Biology certainly considers him a friend."

"Frary? Is he the skinny, balding one that's been following Wilson around like a puppy dog?" House was used to sycophants trailing in Wilson's wake. Wilson rarely paid them more than polite attention and often seemed bewildered by their presence. They never required House to raise the alert above DEFCON 4, unlike the weepy nurses who only had to sigh to deflect Wilson's attention from him.

"He has more hair than you do," Cuddy observed. "And Wilson's been helping him arrange a clinical trial for his latest research. Apparently funding from the ACS came through today and Frary wanted Wilson to be part of the announcement."

No wonder Cuddy looked smug. Publicity for Wilson meant publicity for the hospital. It also meant Wilson would be in a good mood and more likely to buy drinks that night. He decided he didn't mind Frary after all.

House revised his opinion later that afternoon when he walked into his office and saw two people standing on the balcony, laughing. Wilson had his back to him, but House could clearly see the skinny, balding molecular biologist Wilson was talking to. On their balcony. Holding what looked like a glass of champagne. DEFCON 3.

He had two choices. He could walk back out of the office and pretend this was just an anomaly, or he could nip this cosy camaraderie in the bud before it developed into something dangerous. He pushed open the balcony door.

"What's the occasion, Jimmy?" he asked loudly, pleased when Wilson jerked in surprise and spilled his drink.

But Wilson recovered quickly. "You mean Cuddy was lying when she said she told you about the funding announcement?"

"Oh, that." House waved his hand dismissively. "Congratulations."

Wilson raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Thanks," he replied dryly. He smiled when he glanced back at the balding biologist, though. "Have you met House, Brendan?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Brendan Frary. Greg House."

"Nice to meet you, _Brandon_," House said.

Wilson just rolled his eyes, but Frary stepped forward and held out his hand. He was either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave. "It's an honour to meet you Dr. House. I've heard a lot about you," he said, smiling in what appeared to be genuine pleasure. Obviously, the champagne packed a punch.

House glanced deliberately down at his right hand, which was gripping the handle of his cane just a little more tightly than normal. To his credit, Frary dropped his own hand smoothly, not appearing at all embarrassed.

"I should be going," Frary said to Wilson. "My wife and I are celebrating tonight at our favourite restaurant and she'll kill me if we miss our reservation." He clapped Wilson on the shoulder. "I never would have gotten the grant without your support. Thank you doesn't seem nearly enough."

"Cash is always good," House suggested. "Wilson usually takes a 10 kickback."

Wilson glared at him. It was an escalation from the eye rolling, Wilson's own version of DEFCON 4. When he turned back to Frary, his smile was deliberately provocative. "Just have a wonderful evening with your wife. That's thanks enough."

Frary glanced between Wilson and House, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I'll see you on Saturday, Jimmy," he said, with just enough stress on the nickname to make a point without insulting Wilson.

"7:45 tee time," Wilson agreed. He kept his smile in place until Frary had left through the office; when he turned back to face House, though, he wore his most disapproving expression. "Is it your mission in life to be rude to everyone you meet?"

House ignored the question, which he assumed was rhetorical. "You're going golfing with Brendan the Navigator?" That earned him a slight upturn to one corner of Wilson's mouth.

"Yes, and we're sailing to the Isle of the Blessed in the afternoon." And that was all it took to scale back the alert. "I enjoy golf and you can hardly protest, since we'll be on the back nine before you even wake up."

House could hardly protest about a lot of things, but he saw no reason for that to stop him. "You were drinking with him on our balcony," he accused. "Champagne."

"Moscato, actually. Comes with a bottle cap instead of a cork. It's the perfect locker room wine." He handed the bottle to House and gestured for him to take a swig.

It was light, fizzy, and barely registered as wine. Obviously neither Frary nor Wilson had splashed out on the good stuff. But that only resolved part of the issue. "You brought a stranger into our space," he said. "You're lucky I didn't tear his throat out."

Wilson took the bottle back from House and drank straight from it, ignoring his glass. "Cuddy warned me that you were feeling territorial today," he said. "Don't worry. I won't let the new puppy touch your side of the balcony."

House didn't make a distinction between sides. What was Wilson's was his, though not vice versa. "You don't have a golf game on your schedule," he pointed out. "You were trying to hide this from me."

"Actually, I'm trying to hide it from my assistant," Wilson confided. "She hates golf. Childhood trauma with a sand wedge, I think." He passed back the bottle and watched House drink, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Since when have you objected to me playing golf?"

"Since you started keeping it from me. God, I feel like one of your wives."

"I never kept my golf games from my wives," Wilson replied, trying not to smile. "And it's not on my schedule because he only asked me to play today. Trust me. I have bigger things to hide from you than a golf game."

That was what worried House. Wilson was quicksilver where relationships were concerned, cycling from one unsuitable woman to another, sometimes even before they pinged House's radar. He didn't see why friendships would be any different, a decade of constancy notwithstanding. He set the bottle firmly on the dividing wall between the balconies. "Play a dozen games. Join the tour. I don't care."

"So it's just Brendan you object to," Wilson said.

House shuddered. "Brendan. What kind of name is that?"

"Irish, presumably. And that's not the name you're pissed about." Wilson picked up the bottle and handed it back to House. "If I were trying to replace you, I'd find a cranky cripple with no social skills instead of a well-adjusted, able-bodied golfing partner."

"I'm irreplaceable," House retorted, annoyed that Wilson had sized up the situation so easily, even as he crossed Frary off his list of potential enemies. Wilson was welcome to his golf games, especially early morning ones that wouldn't interfere with important rituals like sitting on the couch drinking beer and watching televised sports. Outside contact was probably even healthy, for Wilson at least. House preferred a policy of _sakoku_ — limited trade with foreigners and no exit or entry on penalty of death. Some days, he wished he could actually enforce it.

He finished the Moscato, almost light-headed from the bubbles. "This is because of the antidepressants, isn't it?" he accused. "All these years you've been telling me that drugs are dangerous and it turns out you were right. Not my drugs, of course. They're my friends. As opposed to you."

"This is fun," Wilson commented. "I get a golf game _and_ I get to watch your head explode. I'll have to make new friends more often." He poked House in the chest. "You need to learn how to play nicely with the other children."

House rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Why would I want to share my toys with a balding biologist named Brendan?" Even the alliteration wasn't an inducement.

"I don't belong to you, House," Wilson said, softening the words with a smirk. "In fact, given how much money you owe me, I probably own you, or at least half your possessions."

"That's the only reason I didn't call the FBI when you kidnapped my guitar." That and a desire to stay far, far away from law enforcement agencies, local or federal. "As long as you keep _your_ toys off _my_ balcony, I won't try to break them."

"Duly noted," Wilson said, though he didn't appear unduly concerned. "Hold on a sec." He disappeared into his office and returned a moment later with another bottle of the Moscato. It really was closed with a bottle cap. Wilson expertly knocked the cap off on the edge of the balcony wall and handed the bottle to House. "I picked up one for us, too."

House drank deeply and then gave the bottle back to Wilson. Some things — with some people — were all right to share.


End file.
